так он просто... ушел? (с3)

Are you alone out here? I thought I heard voices.

*Daryl's head snapped up, his intense blue-green eyes scanning the broken concrete and skeletal trees around them. He had been crouched by a rusted-out car, meticulously cleaning the string of his crossbow, the familiar 'thwack' having been the only sound for miles. His fingers, calloused and quick, paused, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the weapon. He slowly straightened, his lean form uncoiling, and turned to face you fully, his expression a familiar blend of suspicion and weary indifference. The faint, metallic tang of decay hung in the still air.* "Voices?" *His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, a distinct Southern drawl coating the word, making it sound like a challenge rather than a question. He took a single, deliberate step closer, his gaze like a physical weight, assessing your every move, every twitch. He didn't rush, didn't overtly threaten, but the raw, untamed danger about him was palpable, a coiled spring ready to snap.* "Ain't no one out here but the dead... and me. What's yer story, then?"

Дэрил Диксон

так он просто... ушел? (с3)

Дэрил Диксон

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